


The Brightest Burning.

by Lestradesexwife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Fluff, Gen, Slash Goggles, Sort of case fic, Tigers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pet tigers are a big responsibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brightest Burning.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Interrosand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrosand/gifts).



> My eternal Gratitude to Lapotter for ALL THE HELP. Generally making this a better thing entirely. So much so that I should probably be listing ze as a co-author... for reasons... ze knows them and that i love hir.
> 
> This is written for SandyDays, fluffy goodness... as much as i am able to. Sandy is awesome and I love her in all the directions.

John watches Sherlock carefully throughout the entire case. Reginald Castlemere, as it happens, is a drug kingpin. John doesn't expect ever to understand what possessed him to seek out Sherlock regarding the disappearance of his mother’s necklace.

Sherlock glows, radiant with his own brilliance, and John shouldn’t find it so… magnetic, but he is drawn in by it every time. It ought to be horrible and boorish, listening to Sherlock expound on his own virtues. John knows he is the exception that proves the rule; he’s heard Greg tell Sherlock off enough to know that other people tire the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

The parallels between client and detective are obvious even to someone of John’s less than stellar luminescence. The drug business isn’t Castlemere’s first, he’d conquered the legitimate business world first and he comes from good stock; his grandfather Count Castlemere secured the family fortune when so many others of the peerage declined into poverty. Only when the tedium set in did Reginald turn to drugs and smuggling. Sherlock is comfortable here in the embrace of upper crust opulence, and it sets John’s teeth on edge.

The tigers… well, the tigers aren’t fat, but they _are_ lazy. Castlemere keeps the tigers as pets and spends considerable sums on veterinary care for his private zoo. John can’t help but be impressed with the set up; it looks like something out of a nature documentary.

John cringes at the way Castlemere tries to seduce Sherlock, literally and metaphorically. He follows in Sherlock’s wake, a hand on his elbow pulling him back from the cliff’s edge of megalomania. Even though, really, Sherlock doesn’t need to be pulled back. Sherlock has nice things, clothing, shoes, all the best lab equipment laid out on the kitchen table of 221B; he doesn’t even give a second look to the toys Castlemere offers him. John swallows hard against the temptation, his own weakness, at the sheer amount of money Castlemere pushes across the table… bribery for Sherlock’s help and the blind eye of New Scotland Yard. 

Sherlock is brilliant, deductions flying and coat swirling. John’s first instinct is (really it is subtext to all of Sherlock’s going’s on) to drag Sherlock out by his ear and give him a good dressing down. Castlemere is not the sort of man to play games with; John doesn’t fancy starring in a modern retelling of Daniel and the lions. _Lions, and tigers, and bears… oh my._

On that front at least John’s concern is unwarranted. It was, obviously, the veterinarian that stole the necklace. The plan involving feeding the stone to the tiger and smuggling it out of the zoo in the beast’s stool. The whole thing seeming rather pointless and overly convoluted to John. 

When Greg comes to arrest the vet and Castlemere, Sherlock has them both reduced to tears and pleading… not for themselves but for the tigers. John shakes his head and stands to the side, out of the way as the animal control officers coo and feed the animals treats laced with sedative. 

The cab ride back to 221B is spent, on John’s part, mentally composing the blog entry; this case practically begs to be written up: suspense, intrigue and a fairly decent photo on his mobile of the tigers in their enclosure.

Sherlock is quiet until John pulls out his mobile to flip through the pictures. “You had a pet as a child.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches. Unending amazement at the way Sherlock can frame something as a statement of fact, but if you know him well enough… then you can hear the uncertainty, the near-desperation not to be wrong. “A monster, mostly English Bulldog, named Gladstone.”

Sherlock nods like he’s known all along. “You don’t miss it?”

“Having a pet? No not really. Cats are too… you already ignore me for days and then turn up when you’re hungry and need attention. A dog, maybe. But we don’t have time to walk it properly, it wouldn’t be fair.”

“So pedestrian. What about something more exotic?”

“Yeah… No. No you cannot turn 221C into an enclosure for tigers. Or… a shark tank or whatever you’re thinking.” John looks up from his phone, running his eyes over Sherlock to make sure he hasn’t hidden anything in the folds of his great coat. “Hardly fair to keep a tiger inside all the time, and can’t exactly take one for a tour around Regent’s.”

That Sherlock actually pouts should not be a surprise.

“And then when you forget to feed it, it eats Mrs. Hudson and the Married Ones.” John turns away and watches as London passes by outside the cab window. They are silent until the cab pulls up in front of Baker Street.

John pays, passing wrinkled notes to the driver. 

“A dog might be handy on cases though.” John says it to Sherlock’s back as Sherlock opens the door. 

Sherlock swirls, spinning on his heel. “Don’t be absurd, John. A dog would only contaminate crime scenes. Lestrade would never have it.”

“Oh, yes… of course. Sorry.” Sometimes John thinks Sherlock picked Baker Street for the width of the pavement… it is the perfect distance for him to pace dramatically in front of the door. 

“Although I’ve heard that greyhounds are very intelligent.”

“We’d have to ask Mrs. Hudson.” John smiles and holds the door for Sherlock to pass by. “We could call him Tiger though.”

The non-committal noise Sherlock makes has John dropping his head to the side to hide his smile.


End file.
